


World Geometries

by Fen_Assan



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett, Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Adventure, Cats, Crossover, Father-Daughter Relationship, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Gift Fic, Happy Family, Humour, Two Awesome Worlds Together, Witcher-Discworld Crossover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-09-12 09:48:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9066508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fen_Assan/pseuds/Fen_Assan
Summary: For Empress Cirilla, the perfect way to celebrate her birthday is to take on a Witcher contract with Geralt. They will both enjoy their adventure despite it turning into something quite unexpected. 
I wrote this story as a birthday gift for my husband, who kindly agreed to share it. :) Happens post Witcher 3 game, but contains no spoilers besides the already stated possible outcome for Ciri.





	

It was known as the City of Golden Towers for good reason. If one first saw it from aboard a vessel on Alba River, and made the only waterside entrance to the city in time for sunset or sunrise, they, just like Geralt did that very same morning, would be greeted by the sight of a multitude of towers - not made of gold, but turning golden nonetheless. The rays of the sun, which shone through the massive river gates shaped as the Great Sun itself, sent the light to reflect off the water and throw golden flickers over the buildings. The city of Nilfgaard. 

It was grand, as the heart of the Empire was of course meant to be. The huge complex of the Imperial Court was likely the most intimidating building Geralt had ever seen, and he was quite well-travelled. The great grey stone towers and battlements excessively adorned with fluttering black banners of the golden Great Sun might have given off a looming and oppressive impression but for the airy tall arches - a remainder, perhaps, of the underlying ancient elven structure. 

“The gentleman shall remove his weapons and leave them for storage with the errand boy,” an incredibly upright man walking in front of Geralt announced, apparently addressing him. The Witcher refrained from commenting, striding on the carpeted floors along the heavily draped walls, all until the man turned his face towards him, a single barely lifted eyebrow indicating either his surprise or his displeasure. Likely both.

“Nuh-uh,” Geralt stopped, crossing his arms over his chest and shaking his head. “Not planning on using them, just don’t feel like chasing after the errand boy later to pick them back up. I’m sure Empress Cirilla won’t mind.”

“The court protocol demands the gentleman to address the Empress by her full name,” the man schooled his face back into the mask of politeness, having let a brief cringe of distaste slip. Geralt sighed heavily but said nothing. _I wonder if he even knows who I am._ “The gentleman shall wait in the antechamber until called upon,” he opened the door to a lavishly decorated room and stepped aside, bowing slightly. Geralt sighed again, louder. Well at least he was not forced into wearing a tight doublet this time. He eased the already open neck of his leather armour - even the mere memory of that garment constricted his breathing. 

Left alone, he cast a quick look about the room full of bookcases heavy with tomes and scrolls, and, satisfied he did not notice a title he had not yet read, he went on to spread his arms for a stretch and crack his neck to each side. It had been a long sail here, but at least with the new Empress, a Skellige ship was allowed to dock. And its crew really - unbelievably - did not plan on raiding the Nilfgaardian shore. How times had changed - and not without his hand in all that. He chuckled to himself, still incredulous about how much politics he had got meddled in in the past few years. But not anymore. 

He stood by the window looking out into the organised and structured beauty of the inner courtyard, with a dignified fountain in the centre and geometrically arranged flowerbeds surrounding it. He heard a door open - not the one he had entered through - but before he could even turn to see the new occupant of the room, he felt a crushing embrace on his back, which rattled his two swords and expelled some air from his lungs. He smiled, covering the thin but strong arms flung around him, and turned, circling the young woman in a hug.

“Ciri.”

“Geralt,” the word sounded muffled with Ciri’s face pressed against his chest. She finally looked him in the eyes, and held him at arm's’ length. “I’m so happy to see you.”

“Happy to see you too, Your Imperial Majesty,” he smirked and was rewarded with a slight punch to his arm for the teasing. “I see you’re well,” he smiled.

“I am. And even better now,” she grinned in response, “that you’re here.”

“Where’s Yen? So much about “travelling by portals is faster”,” he made a face he knew would make Ciri laugh. 

“Still ridiculous as ever. Part of your charm, I guess,” she retorted. “She’s been here for nearly a week. Off making some arrangements for the celebrations,” she leaned in and whispered, “in great secret.”

“Oh! So you know absolutely nothing about what’s happening for your birthdays.”

“Not a thing!” she confirmed, making an exaggeratedly indignant expression. “Not a single tiny thing about the big official banquet with the dignitaries - which you’re attending with me, I’m glad to say,” she smirked, swirling away from Geralt as he groaned and rolled his eyes. “And not a word about the private little ceremony with family and friends only the next day.” 

“At least something to look forward to,” the Witcher grumbled. “Although even just seeing you is worth suffering through doublets and dignitaries,” he added noticing Ciri’s forming pout. “It’s been nearly a year.”

“The retirement’s good for you, according to some.”

“Yen and I deserved a bit of rest, don’t you think?”

“Of course! Especially knowing that you haven’t abandoned Witcher’s work entirely, as I hear,” she winked. 

“Has Yen been complaining?” 

“Not really. Surprisingly,” she rounded her eyes and clamped her hand over her mouth feigning shock, and laughed brightly. “No. She’s quite happy. And you?”

“I am too,” he said honestly. 

“You’re still carrying your swords,” Ciri probed.

“That’s for added emphasis and weight.”

“I say you’ve put on enough weight in the past year as it is,” she poked her finger into his - admittedly slightly larger - stomach, but made a face when she realised his abdomen was still hard with muscle. He might have tensed just a bit for the effect. “Show off,” she smirked. “I’m glad you have the swords with you though. It’ll speed up our adventure!” Geralt’s eyebrows chased up his forehead. “I’ve agreed with Yennefer that you and I can go away for a day or two, to celebrate my birthday the way I want. On condition we’ll be back to celebrate officially.”

“But that’s her birthday too. You’re saying she agreed?” 

“I think she’s preparing something she’ll revel in so much, she’s letting us take pleasure in what the two of us enjoy a lot more than herself.” 

“Large amounts of vodka?” Geralt suggested.

“Sweet Melitele, we have an anomaly! A funny Witcher!” she laughed mockingly.

“Melitele? Not “by the Great Sun”?” Geralt played on. He had never seen himself as a religious man, and never tried pointing Ciri in any direction regarding faith whatsoever. But her mention of Melitele brought back memories of the Temple of Melitele where he had spent so much time himself, time and over again mended by the priestess Nenneke, the very same who taught Ciri as a young girl, before Yennefer took over. 

“I’ll never forget my time in Ellander,” she said warmly, before her expression changed dramatically. “Besides, I’m the Empress,” she scoffed, sticking her chin up, “I can swear by whomever I choose. Especially when no one’s listening,” she added under her breath, but it was loud enough for a Witcher’s ears to pick up. 

“I mean killing monsters, of course,” Ciri got back to business at hand. “You have no idea how tedious it gets being an Empress. I’m so sick of being stuck indoors most of the time.”

“Poor thing,” Geralt commiserated, holding off a chuckle.

“And in dresses,” she added as if it was the most horrible thing one could endure. Geralt knew though that for Ciri it likely was.

“Despicable. Those, however,” he pointed at her outfit consisting of a light tunic, thin leather trousers, a wide belt and high boots, “are not a dress.”

“Exactly,” she beamed at him. “We’ve got a contract to deal with.” 

***

It took Ciri some time to persuade him. Not to take on a contract together - he would enjoy that greatly - but to teleport to their destination. She insisted they would not take a traditional kind of portal sorceresses summoned, which was known to give him a terrible headache and an upset stomach, paired with a spike of contempt towards everything and everyone. Her own powers of the Elder Blood were indeed different, and it was true they did not have enough time to ride there and back on horseback. Because Ciri had managed to find a Witcher’s contract practically at the edge of the known world - in the southern tip of the Tir Tochair mountains.

“It’s a griffin nest,” she shared excitedly, her bright green eyes sparkling with unabated enthusiasm. 

“And you know this how?” he grumbled, while they were gathering some supplies from the Imperial kitchens into light travel packs to take with them. 

“I checked it out. Teleported there and back a couple of times,” she said nonchalantly. Geralt shook his head. 

“Ciri, have you been reckless again?”

“No!” she shouted, then looked about and hushed before cooks and scullery maids started paying them too much mind. “I’m bringing you in to deal with it, am I not? Besides, I have the Hybrid oil. Made it myself, too.” Geralt looked at her silently, paternal worry battling with pride, and rubbed his hands over his face. 

“Fine. So how are we getting there?”

Through the inner courtyard, as it turned out. They stood amid this piece of nature made tamed and meek, several pouches and small packs strapped to their harnesses and belts, swords on their backs. It warmed Geralt’s heart to see Ciri hold her old Witcher’s sword again - it was unique, cast from an alloy of steel and silver, good for any foe - just like she was, a Witcher girl, his Child Surprise turned Empress of the most part of the known world. She took his both hands, smiled excitedly, and just as he was going to ask what to expect from the teleportation, she did it without giving him any prior warning.

He felt the clutch of Ciri’s fingers on his, but everything he saw was a blur, and then darkness, the darkest he had ever seen, but the very next moment it was punctuated by light, numerous, endless stars, above, below, and all around, as if they were rushing right through them. And then - a thud as they were dropped on the ground.

“Ugh, the landing isn’t always gentle,” Ciri groaned getting up to her feet and brushing the dust off her pants. “You alright?” 

“Yeah,” he was still sitting, assessing the damage. Apparently, everything but a bump on his behind earned from the fall, was in perfect order. He looked about: what he could see in nearly three directions were the jagged peaks of Tir Tochair mountains. The horizon sported any greenery only to the west. To the south, his eyes spotted a clearly man-made structure nestled into the mountains.

“What’s that place?”

“Darn Rowan fortress.”

“Right. We bloody are far.” Suddenly, as he was tightening the straps of his harness holding the blades, he realised the position of the sun high up in the sky made no sense. “Ciri, did we… ?” he pointed up.

“A bit, yeah,” she grinned almost shily. “I figured it was better if we were here in the morning rather than in the afternoon. Gives us more time. Better light.”

“Smart,” he conceded. “So where’s the nest?”

“Right there,” she pointed one finger high above amid the rocks. A barely discernible path snaked up, disappearing in that general direction.

“Are you kidding me? All that way? Honestly, I thought your gift would be of more use,” he grumbled and headed towards the mountains. He thoroughly enjoyed teasing Ciri, and was in fact glad they would have the time to talk while tracking up.

“What do you mean?’” she huffed indignantly. 

“This isn’t very precise, is it?”

“I’ll have you know,” she claimed, taking a jog to walk in front of him for a while, “it is perfectly precise. We landed just where I wanted us to.”

“Oh really?”

“Oh yeah. I didn’t want your sorry old bones crashed all over the cliffs, did I?”

“So it isn’t as precise,” he chuckled. He had not felt this amused in a while. She stamped her foot, but then came up and suddenly hugged him. 

“I missed you. Even your teasing. No one dares tease me here,” she complained disappointedly. 

“Glad to be of service,” he grinned back. “Chase you up to the next bend?”

“Oh you’re so gonna eat dust!” she yelled, already running. _Did I ever teach you to cheat?_ Geralt thought, laughing, and picked up the pace. 

They repeated the race a few more times - the path was as if created for the reckless souls like them. Two-thirds of the way up they took a break, sitting on some smoother stones, starting on their provisions - their stomachs were not fooled by the position of the sun. 

“So how does it work? How do you manage to teleport to a precise place and time?” Geralt wondered, chewing some hard, smelly, but quite delicious cheese. “I’d be surprised if you have enough time to learn more about your powers now, with all the responsibilities.”

“True, I mostly only have time to practice what I already know. But then again, I can _create_ some time for myself,” she winked. “This precision is what I learnt years ago in fact, back when I was hopping between the worlds, trying to get back to ours, to you and Yennefer,” she gave him a warm look. Those were the times Geralt would prefer not to speak about, but he was glad to learn more about Ciri’s travels and her powers. “First, when I realised I could traverse space and time, I would always end up in a random place, at random time. And then it started happening that I’d appear in the same place again. And I’d stay a while to study it: its appearance, its smells, and the feel of the place, to be able to recognise it. And then when I managed to do that, I learnt I could concentrate on that particular moment in time and space, and teleport there. So it’s just about knowing the place very well.”

“Have you experimented much?” 

“Oh yes, I can get to any specific spot in Kaer Morhen,” she smiled proudly. Geralt chuckled. 

As they neared the ledge which the griffin had chosen to set up his nest, Geralt shook off the relaxed feeling from his limbs, and more importantly - from his head. 

“Focus, Ciri. You remember the routines? Or do you want a quick practice?” 

“The one we had half an hour ago while we were oiling the blades was quite enough, Geralt. I’m in good shape.”

“All right. Be careful nonetheless. Griffins are formidable opponents.”

“I know,” she whispered, “A cross between a ferocious cat and a giant eagle, a griffin is obstinate and aggressive, and makes use of his ability to… bla-bla-bla. I can quote the whole entry, if you like.” 

“Mhm,” Geralt grumbled, unsettled by her lighthearted approach. 

As the ledge opened up in front of them, they went down on their bellies to survey the place from relative safety. The nest was an enormous thing. Bones and skulls - both those of large mammals and humans - as if spilt from the nest and were scattered all around. 

“Hmm, looks like this one’s a hungry bird,” Geralt mumbled. 

“I’ve seen it carry whole cows up here,” Ciri confirmed. 

“Shame I didn’t know beforehand, could’ve made a couple of bombs.”

“Come on, Geralt, we’ll be fine, there’s two of us!”

“Yeah,” he said, the exhilaration of the upcoming battle mixed with apprehension. He knew Ciri was very good with a sword - and with her own powers - but he could not help worrying for her safety. “Stay here, I’ll get a closer look.” 

The Witcher got to his feet, crouching, Aerondight clasped with both hands. He mumbled during the inspection as was his habit, but this time Ciri demanded in an atrociously loud whisper that he spoke up. He did, if only a little bit. In truth, there was not much difference between whispering and yelling when it came to facing a griffin.

“There are bones, way too many bones, even for a griffin nest. All with claw- and beak marks. Why is this one so hungry? Almost as if it’s raising young, or brooding. But there’s no chick, and no egg. No sign of egg shell either. Hmm.” He kicked over parts of the nest but did not discover anything more revealing. “It might just be a bigger subspecies I guess, a Royal Griffin in all likelihood. You wouldn’t notice the difference if you only saw it from afar in the air,” he told Ciri who was watching him intently, scrambling to her feet in her impatience. 

“Well that’s grand, isn’t it? I’ve never seen a royal griffin up close, I don’t think.”

“We aren’t just gonna see it, Ciri.” She gave him a look full of attitude in response, her sword in hand. He ducked down, motioning her to do the same. “I think I can hear it approaching!”

Just like the stories about this creature’s nobility said, the griffin announced its arrival with a piercing shriek, split in two by the mountain echo. The flap of its wings brought gusts of wind on its approach, its black mane streaming as it swooped down on them. Geralt and Ciri rolled away in opposite directions without agreeing to. Good: she remembered what he had taught her. With the creature now close to the surface, Geralt threw his left hand up, fingers shaping an Aard. The force of the thrust pinned the griffin down, allowing for a moment of opportunity for both Witcher swords to slash at its unprotected sides. It shrieked, and turned, a clawed wing swiping in Ciri’s direction, but she blurred away from it, appearing the next moment behind its back, and landing another fast blow with her sword. 

Geralt made himself look away from her, not to split his focus between his target and the young woman he considered his daughter. But that was impossible. As they danced, managing to keep the griffin aground most of the time, he cried out in warning to her once or twice. In all fairness, she did the same for him. With good timing too. He swung his sword until it met with flesh and rolled away - a griffin was not an opponent whose attacks could be reasonably parried. It was a tough fight - although Geralt had quickly realised it was a common griffin, not its larger cousin - but it was going well. So well in fact that Geralt allowed himself a stray thought - why _was_ this griffin so hungry after all? And as a man who could appreciate irony, he got his answer soon enough, in Ciri’s shocked face as she screamed at him. 

“Another one!” 

He turned only for a fraction of a second to see another griffin in the air. It would leap on them within moments, while they were still fighting the first one, which, although heavily wounded by now, was still far from dying. He knocked the injured griffin down with another Aard and slammed his blade into its back before darting away.

“Ciri! Back to back!” he commanded. The warmth of her body and her heavy panting right behind him told him she listened. She likely realised they were about to find themselves in a very tight spot. “We can do it, Ciri. Focus. Breathe. I’ll ground the new one, but we finish the old one first.” She said nothing, but there was no need for her to. “To your right!” he yelled the moment before the second creature landed, its claws raking through the small stones and patches of soil. If they had been in their path, they would have been ripped to shreds. 

Geralt’s blast immobilised it, but for a shorter period than he expected. His signs might have been weakening as exhaustion started accumulating. He cast another one straight after the first, foregoing an attack on their first foe. As he swiftly pulled a vial from his belt, spit out the cork and downed the Petri’s Philter potion to the last drop, he raised both his Sign and sword hands, and felt Ciri leaving her spot behind his back. 

“Back to back!” he yelled, frustrated, hacking at one of the monsters, but he only saw her blur past him, to one side, then the other. He kept the routine of casting the Sign and attacking with the sword going for a few more moments, when he heard a high-pitched, terrified shriek. Of a woman, not a beast. 

“Geralt!” Ciri’s face was suddenly in front of him, as she pushed him away from what he saw the next moment would be a deadly tackle. She blinked them both behind the attacking griffin, but now both beasts were awake and ready to strike. There was no time for him to panic, he only felt something clamp in his stomach, then Ciri’s arms around him, and her face - squeezing her eyes shut. 

There was darkness again. The same kind of darkness he had flown through while teleporting here from Nilfgaard. She was taking them away then. They were safe. She was safe. He was not sure he remembered to breathe though, he only held her, so tight as if she was still a ten-year-old girl, and only dared to open his eyes. There were stars again, but more this time. And this time they moved, too, and it was disorienting, and hard to say what went in which direction. He watched the flickering lights, realising that, despite the immense speeds at which everything was moving, they were in absolute silence.

The silence broke the moment it became painful. And was replaced with a cacophony: a distant rumbling, as if of many people, and closer shouts, and slurping sounds, and shrieks, and mewling. They were thrown on the ground again, spewed with greater force this time, sending them rolling in what felt like muck, until they finally stopped having met a larger obstacle in the form of the remnants of a wall. Geralt managed to cover his head as his back met the hard surface. Ciri tumbled, stopping against him with a groan. 

“Ciri?”

“I’m alright,” she panted heavily, and looked him over instead of asking the question. He nodded.

“I think.” He sat up, taking stock of his state, as well as their surroundings. “Well, we’re definitely alive and whole,” he appraised. 

“Geralt, I’m sorry. I didn’t know there were two. They looked identical, and... “

“Ciri.”

“... and I never saw both at once, so I didn’t realise…”

“Hey,” he came to wrap her in a hug. “It’s alright. We’re both safe. Besides, it wasn’t your fault entirely. I should’ve observed the nest for longer before attacking. So calm down. Nothing bad happened.”

THAT IS NOT ENTIRELY TRUE.  
The booming voice as if came straight to his head, without being spoken by anyone. Geralt and Ciri perked up, getting to their feet and looking for the source of the voice, but the sound seemed to come from all directions at once. 

YOU VERY MUCH DID CAUSE SOMETHING TO HAPPEN. LOOK FOR YOURSELVES.

A slight shiver creeped up Geralt’s spine at the sound of the hollow voice, although he did not feel scared. His medallion was still - he touched it for good measure, but it clearly picked up on no sign of magical activity. Not knowing where to look, they looked at each other. Ciri shrugged, and gave a slight nod to the left, signalling her intent to look in that direction while he would survey the opposite. Their effort was however wasted, when the next moment a tall dark figure appeared from behind the wall, positioning itself against the bleak light of the evening sun. Geralt touched Ciri’s hand, and they started moving to the side, away from the figure, but without unsheathing their swords. Yet. 

A few steps on, the figure, which had been apparently watching them from the low-hanging hood of its black cloak, extended a hand, and the fading light glistened along the blade of a scythe. Geralt’s hand went up for his sword - he picked silver, despite the lack of evidence. 

“We mean no harm,” he said calmly, his sword in hand but not poised up at the hooded figure. “We’ll be on our way now.” The kept stepping slowly to the side. The cloaked figure tilted its head, as if in surprise or bafflement. 

YOU CALL TAKING A LIFE NO HARM?

“What are you talking about? We didn’t kill anyone.” 

LOOK, it repeated again, this time signalling at a direction with the scythe. As it pointed, a faint circle of bleak grey light appeared over a pile of rubble nearby. Geralt did not need to come closer to see a small cat lying there, its belly twitching with heavy breaths. Oh no. This was too much. Now he would have to answer for killing a cat. 

“I’m sorry. I couldn’t see it when I was falling. We teleported here and couldn’t control the fall.” He figured that much truth would not harm them. The figure stood silent for a moment, and then started walking towards them slowly. As it approached, Geralt cursed for not having Keira’s artifact on him - he was certain the figure’s appearance was some sort of an illusion, for walking in their direction was a skeleton wearing a black robe and carrying a scythe between the bones of one hand. Ciri gasped. As the skeleton reached them, it put the scythe in front of itself and leaned on the tip of the handle with both bony - no, with the bones of both hands. 

YOU THINK THE FACT YOU DIDN’T MEAN TO DO IT CANCELS THE ACTION OUT? It tilted his head. Shit. This was tough - like talking to himself, as this creature was now repeating the words he himself had often spoken to Ciri as a girl after she misbehaved. 

“No,” Geralt answered simply. The figure nodded. 

“Who are you?” Ciri asked in awe.

ISN’T IT OBVIOUS? 

“It is,” Geralt answered for the sake of keeping up appearances. Whoever this was, it was probably a good idea to avoid confrontation. They did not even know where they were. They only knew it was somewhere very dirty. And extremely smelly. 

I AM DEATH, the creature said nonetheless. 

“Death?” Ciri came closer as Geralt’s hand failed to stop her, curiosity written all over her face. “Like the actual death itself?”

“HIMSELF” WOULD BE THE PROPER GRAMMAR. BUT YES. 

“So it’s you who takes the lives?” she continued the questioning, fascinated. 

I DO NOT TAKE ANYTHING. I SIMPLY FACILITATE THE PASSING OF THE SOULS. I DO NOT KILL. IT IS A HIGHLY ANNOYING MISCONCEPTION. 

“Oh,” she said. Apparently remembering the dying feline, she was at its side in the blink of an eye. “This poor cat, does it mean it was destined to die now?” Death shifted in his stance, as if uncomfortably. 

IT IS DIFFICULT TO SAY. I DID RECEIVE… A LAST MINUTE WARNING ON THIS. I WAS JUST MAKING SOME CURRY...

“Does it mean you can save it?” Ciri grasped at the tiny, frail straw.

I DO NOT SAVE. IT IS NOT MY DUTY. MY JOB IS TO COLLECT THE SOULS AND LET THEM PASS ON. 

“And what if I can save it? Will it have to die anyway?” she insisted. Geralt just stood there completely mute, not knowing what he disbelieved more - his eyes or his ears. 

AND WHO ARE YOU TO CLAIM YOU CAN SAVE? The voice boomed even stronger than usual - a warning. Ciri stood up, unperturbed. Her voice rang stronger with each word she said. 

“I am the Lady of the Worlds, the Child of the Elder blood, the Empress of Nilfgaard, the…”

THAT’S ENOUGH, Death lifted his scythe in a sort of defeat. NO NEED FOR FLASHING THE TITLES. WHAT CAN YOU DO TO HELP THE KITTEN?

Ciri knelt down right into the mud and detritus in front of the poor animal - although mud and detritus did seem like the only substances around. She closed her eyes, and started muttering in a low voice - Geralt only caught fragments of Elder Speech. Soon, a shimmering ball of pure white light appeared between her palms, and she lowered them on either side of the cat. It wriggled at first, and meowed weakly as if it was at its last breath, but then opened its eyes and sat up. 

“It’s alive,” Ciri beamed, gently picking it up. 

IT IS? Death wondered, coming closer to see for himself. Geralt swallowed hard when the Reaper stood next to Ciri, towering over her. But he only extended his hand - the bones - and took the kitten from her. To Geralt’s astonishment, he propped it on the two bones which made up his forearm, pressed it to its ribs covered only by the fabric of the black robe, and stroked the ginger fur with the other hand in a gesture which could only be one of habit. It appeared that he was looking at a cat-loving Death. He must have got a serious concussion in the fall after all, Geralt groaned. 

“What is curry?” Ciri asked Death, beaming.

“Must be an exuberant way of picking up a soul,” Geralt offered grumpily.

IT IS WHAT HUMANS CALL SUSTENANCE. FOOD. ITS CONSUMPTION IS LIKE BITING A RED-HOT ICE CUBE. I QUITE LIKE IT. 

“You eat?” Geralt asked, incredulous.

I DO NOT NEED TO. BUT I ENJOY A FEW INVENTIONS OF THE MORTALS. 

“Oh, right,” Ciri got an idea. “What sort of mortals? Where are we?”

IN THE SHADES.

“Well that’s not helping much,” Geralt grumbled. Ciri bit her lip.

“Can you show us around maybe?”

SHOW YOU AROUND? Death pulled back at the apparent absurdity of her suggestion.

“Yes, as in walk with us so we can… maybe try that curry you mentioned - we’re quite hungry - and show us this…” Ciri paused, looking around and noticing some structures to the north, “... magnificent city?”

IT IS NOT MAGNIFICENT. IT IS ANKH-MORPORK.

“Well, I won’t say no to more pork - as I said, I’m quite famished,” she giggled excitedly. She was clearly having a good time. In an unknown place of an unidentified world, talking with Death who was stroking a ginger cat. Geralt sighed deeply and rubbed at his eyes. 

*** 

“Uh… Death?” Geralt ventured as they started towards the opaque lights and crooked buildings, unsure if that was the proper way to address him. 

YES? he asked, still stroking a cat, the handle of his scythe now tucked in his armpit - or well, whatever that part was for a robed skeleton - and the blade resting over his shoulder blade, literally. 

“When you appeared here, you knew it was for the cat’s… untimely demise?”

YES? He sounded surprised by the question. Ciri, however, caught on to what Geralt was thinking, and shot him a warning glance and an “are you really that insane?” kind of grimace. But he wanted to know a bit more about what to expect, and he was plain curious. 

“So you're sure you weren't there for any of us.” Death stopped and cocked his head as if pondering. 

I AM FAIRLY CERTAIN. I COULD HOWEVER MAKE AN ENQUIRY WITH MY SUPERIOR, IF YOU INSIST.

“You have a superior?” Ciri and Geralt asked simultaneously. 

OF COURSE. I AM THE DEATH OF DISCWORLD. AZRAEL IS THE ULTIMATE DEATH OF ALL DOMAINS. 

“That's one hell of a title,” Geralt noted, squeezing Ciri’s arm reassuringly. “Good thing we’re not from this Discworld, as you called it, we’ve travelled from a different world. So no need to worry - we definitely aren't your job.” 

OTHER WORLD? Geralt knew it was anatomically impossible for skeletons to furrow their eyebrows for the obvious lack of those, but he could have sworn Death just managed to give off the impression of a sceptical brow crease. 

“Why is this world called Discworld?” Ciri asked, oblivious of Death’s emotional turmoil. 

IS THAT NOT OBVIOUS? BECAUSE IT IS A DISC OF COURSE, AS WORLDS TEND TO BE. 

“Ah well, you see, ours is a sphere. And being the Lady of Time and Space and all, I’ve travelled quite extensively between different worlds, and I assure you the vast majority of those are spheres as well.” There was no challenge in Ciri’s words, maybe just a trifle of bragging. 

A SPHERICAL WORLD? WHAT A PREPOSTEROUS IDEA. IT WOULD FALL OFF THE BACK OF THE GREAT A’TUIN THE SAME MOMENT YOU PLACED IT THERE. Geralt felt there was a lot - and he meant A LOT of existential debates to be had there, but he was not sure it was the right time or place for those. 

“Shall we get to that curry thing first?” The mention of the spicy food composed Death somewhat. 

YES. 

He seemed to have picked a direction, and strode in a confident and relax gate, his black robe fluttering, and his bones spoiling the grim effect by clicking from time to time. As the two of them followed suit, they exchanged intent glances, and Ciri crinkled her nose.

“What’s this smell?” she whispered, probably not to offend their host. 

“Smell? You’ve bloody learnt your diplomacy, Ciri. It stinks to high heavens here. Reminds me of that time I fought a zeugl waist-deep in sewage…” 

“Really, Geralt? Again?” Ciri rolled her eyes at the threat of him telling one of his favourite annoying stories. He smirked. 

“This stench is worse though. And gets stronger and stronger as we walk. And the wind’s blowing towards us…” he let the implication sink in. Ciri reacted immediately, shifting her eyes from Death walking in front of them to Geralt.

“You think it could be him?” she dared not ask aloud, mouthing the words instead.

“He is all about death,” Geralt shrugged, “would sorta make sense.” He decided to check his theory by inching closer to the robed black figure ahead. He was not grateful for being a Witcher right now. The stench was a true assault on his senses, nauseating and omnipresent. But it did not spread from Death. 

IT IS THE CITY. Geralt barely suppressed a jolt, and, utterly found out, stepped forward to walk beside Death. 

“Why? Is something wrong with the sewers here?”

“I can’t believe you’re looking for Witcher work in another world!” Ciri stomped in to join them.

“I’m not, I’m just…”

IT IS JUST THIS WAY. NOT ONLY THE SEWERS. THE RIVER TOO. 

“The river?” Ciri wondered, looking around - there was neither a sight nor sound of water anywhere nearby.

ANKH, Death nodded. YOU JUST WALKED ON IT.

They turned to where the bones were pointing, and realised that the slimy muck they found themselves in earlier was in fact moving slightly, as if it was not all detritus and dirt, but something was alive in there as well. It looked quite solid, gelatinous at best in some places.

“Is that what water’s like on Discworld?” Ciri asked, horrified. Death turned to her, cocking his head, for all intents and purposes giving her a look as if she had just asked the stupidest question in history. 

NO. IT IS JUST ANKH. 

Ciri sighed in relief. 

“I think I’m not complaining that Velen stinks ever again,” Geralt grumbled, rubbing at his nose. It only made it worse. “Or sewers anywhere. Bloody hell, this here makes a zeugl a downright scented creature.”

“You’re such a grumpy old man!” Ciri laughed.

“Well yeah, did you just meet me?” he retorted. She trotted to his side on her heeled boots - clearly Yen’s influence - gave him a quick hug, and turned to Death, or rather the cat he was still holding. The feline seemed to be quite fine, if not too energetic - a bit lethargic even maybe? - but near-Death experience would probably do that to anyone, Geralt figured.

“Hey, kitty kitty. Are you still alive there? You poor thing,” Ciri went on her tiptoes to take a look at the creature nestled in the crook between Death’s humerus, radial and ulna bones. 

THE CAT CANNOT UNDERSTAND YOUR SPEECH.

“Oh,” Ciri blinked, “I didn’t exactly...expect it to...How is it that you understand us? And we understand you?” It must have dawned on her they did not even know which language Death was speaking - hardly the Common, or even Elder Speech of the Continent - but they were able to communicate perfectly well. Death shrugged.

MAGIC PROBABLY. 

“What kind of magic?”

I DO NOT KNOW. IT IS NOT MY RESPONSIBILITY. 

Geralt smirked at Ciri’s frustration. She soon forgot about it though as they seamlessly emerged into a street, and then another - narrow, ramshackle, but bustling with life. So bustling in fact, that very soon they started to bump into people, or they started bumping into them quite unceremoniously. Death walking in front provided no obstacle for them whatsoever for everyone seemed to give him a wide berth, going around him as if intuitively, without even giving him a glance. At one such encounter Geralt felt a small coin purse hanging at his belt snatched, and swirled immediately to tackle the thief. The man writhed underneath him on the muddy ground - gods knew where the moisture came from - and started yelling to let him go as soon as Geralt twisted his arm behind his back and prized his pouch from filthy fingers. When Geralt lifted his knee from the man’s back and let him stand, the thief did not make himself scarce as one would expect a reasonable representative of his trade to do, but started complaining loudly, flailing his hands.

“Whaddaya think ya doin, mate? I left ya a bloody receipt, I did! ‘Twas all in good order!” Geralt watched the shorter and much more slightly built man in front of him, squinting his eyes, failing to understand what was going on.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” he asked slowly and articulately.

“The receipt!” the thief shrieked indignantly, pointing at Geralt’s belt. Upon closer inspection, the Witcher found a small piece of paper tucked into in, which contained some scribbles, and an official-looking stamp underneath. 

“I don’t know what this is,” he said, incredulous.

“The receipt, of course, you daft plonker! Can’t you burly hunks read at all?” Now that much Geralt understood. What he still failed to comprehend though was the unfathomable reason this small, weak man was unafraid of someone times larger and stronger, sporting weird yellow cat eyes and two swords on his back. That was downright unusual, and - he might admit if pressed - sort of entertaining. The Witcher could not suppress an amused smirk, but instead of saying anything, he simply crossed his arms over his chest and stared at the man as he lamented, cursed, threw his hands up in the air and rolled his eyes extensively.

HE IS A _TOURIST_ , came a voice. The thief did not look behind himself at Death, he just accepted the information as if it was planted directly in his mind, and groaned loudly in frustration.

“Sodding fuck. Another one of those. All right, here goes.” He straightened up, brushed his dirty hair to one side, cleared his throat, and started delivering the obviously learnt by heart and many times delivered speech. “Good evening. Let me welcome you to the largest city on the Disc on behalf of the Guild of Thieves, Cutpurses, Housebreakers and Allied Trades. My name is Brundo and I shall be your mugger tonight. Please note that for this transaction you have received the appropriate documentation in the form of a receipt,” he pointed to the paper Geralt still held between his fingers. “The above-mentioned serves as evidence and official record of the deed, which you are strongly advised to carry on her person at all times, for it exempts you from being inconvenienced with another official robbery for the rest of the year. Now hand over the purse, please,” the thief even bowed ever so slightly, and extended his open palm. 

“You gotta be kidding me.”

“I am most serious, I assure you. Let us conclude the deal and be on our respective ways, please, sir.” 

“This is no deal,” Geralt let out a small laugh. “You’re bloody ridiculous if you think I’ll just give you my money.”

“But I…” the man looked genuinely lost, “I already took it from you, and...and provided the paperwork. I’m a licenced thief, sir!” His last words sounded plaintive, as if he was a child pleading to get his toy back, knowing he had full rights on it. What a change from the beginning of their encounter.

“Good for you,” Geralt shrugged. “But I took the purse back, so you got no claim on it anymore. You can keep the receipt though,” he closed the distance between them in one step, and tucked the paper between the buttons of the stunned and speechless man’s overcoat. “Have a nice day!” Geralt added, taking Ciri by the arm and moving away. 

“Wow,” she exhaled, before they both burst out laughing. 

They soon arrived to the eatery to which Death referred as “Curry Gardens, my favourite curry house”. It made little sense to Geralt for the whole place to be actually made of curry, but he was becoming more and more open-minded in terms of cultural differences. 

Following Death’s recommendation, both Ciri and himself ordered Curry with Named Meet, in the form of a “take away” - an entirely weird concept of not eating the food you just bought where you bought it - all cultural awareness be damned. They settled to eat in a side street, burning their tongues not so much on the heat as the spiciness of the dish, which in fact turned out to be one of the best strange things Geralt had ever tasted. He soon realised that all the passers-by, except for a couple of kids and a few stray cats - the latter being there chiefly for the scraps of meat Death was feeding them after their ginger furry companion had been fed quite full - never spared a look in Death’s direction, while eyeing Ciri and himself with open curiosity. 

“Death?” he asked.

YES?

“Can only children and cats actually see you?”

YES, AND THOSE ABOUT TO DIE.

Before Ciri could say what was on her mind and her already open lips, he continued.

AND WITCHES AND WIZARDS. 

A sigh of relief escaped from Ciri. 

WHICH ONES ARE YOU?

“Neither exactly, but close enough. I am a Witcher. In our world, we are the only ones able to kill monsters which came from other spheres after the Conjunction.” There came an interested cocking of Death’s head. “Short version - some worlds collided, and very different creatures got mixed up and not where they’re supposed to be.” 

MHM, Death nodded. SO YOU DEAL IN… DEATH?

“Yeah, I guess it does make us colleagues in a way.”

I DO NOT KILL, Death repeated his earlier statement a bit touchily. YOURS IS A GRAVER RESPONSIBILITY IF YOU HAVE TO MAKE THE DECISION TO TAKE THE LIFE YOURSELF, he pondered. 

“Could look at it that way, I guess,” Geralt shrugged, trying to catch the sauce threatening to spill all over his face. Death jolted slightly just as a soft chuckle was heard. 

THAT HAPPENS TO ME ALL THE TIME TOO. He pointed to the red-brownish curry stains all over his facial bones and even some on his robe. YSABELL LAUGHS AT ME FOR THAT, he suddenly imparted in a warm voice, which Ciri immediately caught on to. 

“Ysabell! Is there a Mrs Death then?” 

NO! Death pulled back as if shocked. SHE IS MY DAUGHTER. 

“But how..?” Ciri looked him over and pointed her index finger - quite rudely, he had to say, Yen would be very disappointed in her manners - up and down his skeleton.

ADOPTED DAUGHTER, Death somehow managed to make a sound of clearing one’s throat, despite the obvious lack of one. 

“Oh wow,” Ciri’s eyes were big and round as saucers as she stared at Death and Geralt in turn. “You guys do have some things in common.” To Death’s questioning look (they had somehow already learnt to interpret his body language - yes, they knew there was no body to speak of - to understand him effortlessly), she explained, “Geralt is my adoptive father.” Geralt felt a jolt and a pinch at his heart at her last word. They shared a warm smile, the Witcher staying silent to let his constricted throat ease. “Maybe that’s not all you have in common! Let's’ see…” Ciri jumped from her seat, brushing her hands on her trousers - good thing Yen did not witness that “atrocity”, Geralt chuckled - her meal finished. “What could it be?” she tapped her finger on her lips, grinning mischievously, eyeing them. “Do you like gambling?” she asked Death. Geralt sighed in annoyance.

“I told you already, Ciri, it’s not about gambling as such, not about the money. I just enjoy the challenge of the card game. Or dice game. Or drinking game.”

I LIKE CHESS. IT IS A CHALLENGE TO REMEMBER HOW A HORSE MOVES IN THAT GAME THOUGH.

“Ooh, speaking of horses! Geralt gives each new horse he acquires the same name! And it is ridiculous! Can you imagine calling a horse Roach?” Ciri laughed mockingly, sticking her tongue out at Geralt as if she was ten again.

MY HORSE IS CALLED BINKY. 

“Huh! How precious,” Ciri whispered, plopping down next to Geralt again. “This is almost too much to be a simple coincidence. Shame you don’t share the love of cats,” she smiled.

YOU DO NOT LIKE CATS? Death demanded, not threateningly - he rather seemed astounded, uncomprehending.

“It’s they who don’t usually like me,” Geralt explained. “In our world they feel and accumulate magical energy. And I’m a sort of an anomaly in that regard, so…” 

BUT NOT HERE, Death noted, pointing a phalanx towards the two cats sitting by Geralt’s feet, and one more - the poor ginger he had nearly killed in his fall - who was cleaning himself leisurely, licking his paws, while seated right by the Witcher’s side. Geralt extended his hand, curiously and carefully, but the feline did not run away, did not hiss - in fact, he sniffed at the fingers still smelling of curry, and bumped his head against Geralt’s palm, brushing the soft furry body against his skin as the cat walked on and finally settled in Geralt's lap, continuing his cleaning routine. It felt weird. And… nice?

“Huh,” Geralt only said. He sighed for some reason and looked at his lap, uncertain as to what to do about getting up now that the cat had nestled there comfortably, turning into a warm, sleepy ball of fur that looked quite immovable. 

“This curry has made me terribly thirsty,” Ciri imparted. “Is there a place we can get a decent drink?”

NOT IN ANKH-MORPORK, Death stated. 

“Then maybe a less decent one?” she tried. Death nodded. 

FOLLOW ME.

The tavern - although Death insisted on referring to it as a “pub” - was a more familiar sight. It looked like any tavern anywhere Geralt had ever been: full of representatives of various races in equally varying states of inebriation, noise, smells, stains, and brawls always about to start. He breathed more easily there. They checked out the lower floor, but the amount of sawdust covering the floors there in order to soak up all the questionable liquids deterred them from staying downstairs, and they ventured straight to the counter of the _Mended_ \- which, they were informed, had previously been, as well as been called, _Broken - Drum_. 

With less soggy sawdust there, it was easy for Geralt to notice a trace of some nut shells on the floor. 

“Hmm,” he wondered aloud, his “work” senses immediately switched on, “wonder what this means.”

IT MEANS THERE ARE NO MORE PEANUTS, Death answered.

“And what does _that_ mean?” Ciri wanted to know.

THAT THE LIBRARIAN IS HERE. 

As the explanation became increasingly deprived of sense, they turned to the sounds of several cheap, light chairs falling to the floor as someone walked right through them. That someone turned out to be a massive mammal walking on hind legs, nearly dragging his knuckles along the floor - he reminded Geralt of the exotic species of orangutan he had once seen on the pages of _The Wonders of Zerrikania_. 

The creature neared, sniffed the air in front of them, and said “Oook”, which somehow sounded like a greeting, before vacating the premises. 

WAS HERE, Death corrected his earlier statement. 

The ale - beer - was marginally bad, thus making them feel even more at home. Death, they found out, was incapable of getting drunk, but the fact did not impede Ciri’s and Geralt’s own intention to imbibe. Despite being not in the least inebriated, Death seemed to have become more relaxed and even friendlier with time. He was an intelligent and pleasant companion, and the conversation flowed effortlessly. After quite a few tankards, Geralt asked Death,

“So… what happens after you?” 

I AM EVER-PRESENT, BEYOND THE CONCEPT OF TIME, SO NOTHING CAN EVER HAPPEN _AFTER_ ME. I DO MY JOB, KEEPING THE CYCLE OF DEATH GOING, SO LIFE - AND EVERYTHING - CAN KEEP MOVING, LIKE PARTS OF A MACHINE THAT IS WELL-OILED AND WELL-TENDED, he explained thoughtfully.

“What’s a “machine”? Some sort of apparatus?” Geralt wondered. At his question, Ciri, who had been quiet for some time, sprung back to her energetic self.

“I know! I think I know!” she exclaimed, looking excitedly at Death. He nodded to her, as if giving a permission to share her theory. “When I was travelling between the worlds, I saw all sorts of things. Machines, too, I think. There was a world so full of them it seemed there were more machines there than anything else. They were huge structures of metal, like flying homes - although they didn’t look like homes, but were capable of carrying many beings inside. I remember that world in particular because I thought it was terrifying, but also strangely funny. There was a man there, a human by the looks of him, whom they called a shepherd, but his “herd” consisted of creatures one weirder than the next. There was a woman, a female, completely blue all over. And differently coloured creatures looking like huge reptilians. And another cowled one, with the helm like a mask covering her face. And they all wore metal suits of armour, and there were things moving of their own accord and…”

MMH, Death interrupted, apparently tiring of the fantastically impossible tale Ciri was spinning. Geralt moved closer to rub at her back comfortingly. 

“We should be getting home, don’t you think?” Her cheeks flushed, as if she had forgotten all about going back in the excitement of this new adventure.

“Yes, I guess we should,” she said in a hushed voice. 

ALREADY? Death sounded disappointed. 

“We might come back, you know,” Ciri smiled, “I think I can get quite a good feel of this place now, so I’ll be able to teleport here on purpose.” 

I WOULD LIKE THAT. 

Geralt extended his hand towards Death, and shook the bones stretched to meet his. The shake felt strangely human and warm. Or maybe he was just imagining things under the influence of the local brew. 

I WOULD LIKE TO GIVE YOU SOMETHING. A SOUVENIR. 

Geralt had no idea what Death had in mind, so he just looked at him, slightly stupefied, as the skeletal hand moved in his direction, clutching the scythe.

WE DO THE SAME KIND OF JOB. THIS COULD BE USEFUL TO YOU.

“Wow, thanks. What about you?”

I HAVE MORE, he shrugged.

“I hate to interfere,” Ciri bit her lip, “but I’m quite sure no objects from another world can survive the teleportation. It only works with living beings, as things simply disintegrate upon arrival. I’ve checked.”

“Really, Ciri?” Geralt crossed his arms and assumed a fatherly tone. “You nicked stuff from other spheres?”

“As an experiment!” 

SO YOU ARE CERTAIN LIVING THINGS DO SURVIVE? Death asked, and Ciri nodded. He fumbled in the hem of his long robe, finally uncovering the ginger cat that had been sleeping there, curled up. THEN TAKE HIM. SO YOU HAVE A CAT WHO LIKES YOU IN YOUR WORLD. 

Geralt did not know what to say, so he accepted the furry little fella, and shook Death’s hand again. Ciri stepped forward and wrapped Death in a hug, even if she only barely reached up to his sternum. 

“It was a pleasure,” she smiled. Geralt could have sworn Death smiled too. How he did it must have been a thing of magic. 

Outside the tavern, they slipped into the first side street. Ciri embraced Geralt, nuzzling at the cat in his arms and giggling, and closed her eyes. 

Darkness, and light later, they landed in a garden. The stone frame of the neatly organised flowerbed pressed into Geralt’s side. He groaned. At least they were back where they needed to. Another confirmation of that came the very next second, as the doors flung open, and the scent of lilac and gooseberry reached his nostrils.

“Geralt! Ciri! Finally!” Yennefer hurried to their side, stretching an arm to help each of them rise, her beautiful violet eyes rounding at the sight of the cat. “And who is that?” she cocked a brow.

“That, Yen, is a beast from another dimension,” Geralt grinned. “And he happens to like me.” 

“Does it mean he’ll be losing ginger fur all over my black clothes?” she smiled back, raising a brow further up. 

“Only if he likes you too,” he winked, gathering her in an embrace with the cat in between them, ignoring her half-hearted protests. After a moment, she laughed, and, as Ciri inserted herself between them too, hugged them all back.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I appreciate all feedback, so do let me know what you think. I hope you enjoyed reading as much as I enjoyed writing it. :)


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